Courtyard House: I fish in the heavens, a professional bird abuser.

The first car overturned in the middle of the road, upside down.

The four wheels were still turning, making a creaking sound, like the last heartbeat of this city.

He Yuanchao took three steps forward, stepping on the broken glass, the crunching sound of his shoes echoing clearly on the empty main street. He was wearing tactical boots that he had taken from the security guard, which were much more comfortable than walking barefoot on the floor; at least he no longer had to use the broken glass as a massage mat.

He was holding a 12-gauge tactical shotgun in his right hand; the barrel was still cool.

He was clutching the strap of a tactical backpack he'd taken from an ammunition depot in his left hand; it was stuffed with ammunition and a few grenades.

The wind was blowing from the end of the street.

It's not normal wind.

It carried a strong, burnt smell, along with a cloyingly sweet chemical odor—the peculiar smell lingering in the air after the T-virus spread, like someone had splashed cheap perfume on the city and then set it on fire.

He Yuanchao looked up at the sky.

It was gray and hazy.

It wasn't the gray of an overcast day; it was the kind of gray that looked like the entire sky had been covered with a layer of dirty gauze. The sun was still hanging in the sky, but the light changed after passing through that layer of dust, casting a pale, stark white light on the ground, like the cold lights in a funeral home.

The buildings on both sides of the street look relatively intact; at least most of them haven't collapsed.

But many of the windows were broken.

Several apartment buildings still had curtains hanging in the windows, which fluttered out in the wind like unclaimed funeral banners.

The ground was even more cluttered.

Shopping bags, clothes, shoes, banknotes scattered all over the ground—and that kind of prop that makes your heart ache the most in horror movies: a child's sneaker, lying forlornly on the curb, the laces still tied, with a few dried dark red stains splattered on it.

He Yuanchao's gaze lingered on that shoe for less than half a second.

Then it was moved.

He wasn't the type to be overwhelmed with emotion in the face of ruins. In the world of "Bright Sword," he had seen scenes ten times worse. After the Japanese army's "Three Alls Policy," entire villages were piled high with corpses by the roadside, too many to burn completely.

But that was war.

It was a battle between two groups of living people.

The horror here lies in the fact that the killer is not a human being.

They are things that were once human.

"System, scan a 500-meter radius around me."

He Yuanchao gave an instruction in his mind.

The radar interface on the retina lit up.

Within a 500-meter radius, there were very few green markers—most of them were concentrated in an area two kilometers to the southeast, which looked like some kind of temporary refuge.

There are an overwhelming number of red cursors.

It was densely packed, like a handful of red beans scattered on a map.

The nearest red dot was less than 80 meters away from him, just at the right corner of the intersection ahead.

He Yuanchao slowed his pace.

The shotgun's safety was already off, the butt was resting against the shoulder, and the muzzle was slightly raised, ready to fire at any moment.

He walked to the edge of the intersection, leaned against the tin wall of a newsstand—on which was still covered with an expired movie poster that rustled in the wind—and turned his head to glance at the street on his right.

Three.

No, four.

Four zombies were lying on the hood of a yellow taxi.

They are eating.

More accurately, they were devouring a corpse.

The chewing sound was very distinctive—"crunch, crunch," like gnawing on bones or chewing cartilage.

He Yuanchao's eyebrows twitched slightly.

It's not because it's disgusting.

It was because he noticed a detail.

The four zombies were dressed in the same uniform—dark blue uniforms with name tags hanging on their chests.

Those are the uniforms of the Raccoon City Police Department.

These guys were police officers before they died.

Before the city completely fell, they were probably still trying to maintain order and protect the citizens.

Then they too turned into monsters.

This is the most infuriating thing about the T-virus.

It doesn't discriminate against anyone.

Whether you are a policeman, a doctor, a teacher, or a thief, once you are infected, everyone will turn into rotten flesh in the same way.

He Yuanchao withdrew his gaze.

He wasn't going to waste bullets here.

Four ordinary zombies aren't worth a single 12-gauge shotgun shell. Besides, the gunshot would be too loud and attract more trouble.

He took a detour through a small alley.

The alley was narrow, with fire escape staircases and garbage cans on both sides of the residential buildings. Several garbage cans were overturned, their contents scattered all over the ground. The stench of rotting food and household garbage, combined with the pre-existing smell of blood in the air, created a unique "cocktail" that made one's stomach churn.

He Yuanchao pinched his nose and hurried past.

His goal was clear—to get a drivable car first.

In the apocalypse, a car is life.

With a car, you can run fast, carry a lot, and avoid having to race against a bunch of rotten meat on your feet when being chased by them.

Walk out of the alley.

Suddenly, a bright and open view appeared before me—it was a commercial street lined with shops on both sides.

There's a pizza shop, a pharmacy, a secondhand electronics store, and a gun shop with a small storefront but a very thick display window.

He Yuanchao's gaze lingered on the gun shop for two seconds.

The shop window was broken, and it was pitch black inside, so I couldn't see anything.

But his system radar showed that there were three green cursors in that store.

living people.

He Yuanchao raised an eyebrow.

In this godforsaken place where there is rotting flesh everywhere, how can there be living people staying in a gun shop?

They are either survivors who hid inside.

Or perhaps... combat personnel who were already in that area.

A face suddenly flashed through his mind.

Short hair.

Blue tactical vest.

Heroic and heroic.

Jill Valentine.

He Yuanchao's lips curled up slightly.

"If we're lucky—"

He hadn't finished speaking.

Suddenly, a burst of gunfire erupted from inside the gun shop.

"Da da da—Bang! Bang!"

That was the sound of pistols and submachine guns firing alternately.

Followed by.

A woman's angry shout came from the shattered shop window.

"Payton! Reload! I'll cover you!"

He Yuanchao stopped in his tracks.

He recognized the voice.

That crisp, decisive voice, characteristic of soldiers, stood out starkly against the deathly street.

It really is her.

He Yuanchao glanced down at the shotgun in his hand, then at the shattered shop window.

"Okay."

"Since we've run into each other, I won't consider it me meddling."

He pulled on the pump grip of the shotgun.

"Click."

The bullet is loaded.

Then he strode toward the gun shop where gunshots and screams were coming from.

The scene inside was much more lively than he had imagined.